Piers
by Nibzo
Summary: Britain dwells on the past during a night with America and calls out the wrong name in bed.  Whoops.  The next morning, America decides to help Britain obtain closure by helping him get over one Piers Gaveston in his own unique way...or in several unique ways.  USUK, slight Gaveston/Britain at the beginning.
1. Chapter 1

**Huh, this is pretty much the second fic I've written with a historical background. Though I guess Edward II's reign isn't too well known. When most people think English monarchs, it's more about Henry VIII. While his reign was way more historically important because of all the things that changed the country, Edward's was probably surrounded by just enough scandal. **

**If you want a somewhat historically accurate account, read Marlowe's _Edward__II_. That's what started all of the research. Though the timeline isn't the same and it's a bit dull at the beginning because of all the politics, it's a wonderful story. Marlowe is a genius *cough* Better than Shakespeare! *cough cough!***

**Ah, and if you're still interested, then you should read Brandy Purdy's _The__Confession__of__Piers__Gaveston_. It's a beautiful story, and she does a great job with all of the historical details. **

**Italics are the past, everything else is the present. Do not own Hetalia. Or Piers Gaveston. Who was an actual person.**

Maybe it was because he was so much like him that he was so attracted to the younger man.

Yes, that had to be the reason. That was why he was attracted to his haughtiness, his overindulgence, his dashing good looks…his…

"Ah…ah…"

"_Lord Kirkland," he saw him in his mind, those tan fingers, slightly calloused from his life as a knight, cupping his chin as Arthur stared up at him with a look of shock and fear in his eyes, the other man tilting his face so that the two could see eye to eye. He couldn't help but admire that brilliant black hair and those deep blue eyes as their faces drew dangerously close and closer, and after what must have seemed like an eternity but was really only seconds their lips gently touched._

Why was he thinking about these things in the middle of sex? Christ, since when was being shoved onto your back being fucked senseless a perfect opportunity to dwell on the past?

"_I hate you. I despise everything you are and everything you stand for."_

"_But you cannot help but love me, can you?"_

_He was right. Arthur was a country and the voices of his people were what fueled his emotions, made him who he was. Those same voices despised him, called him "witch", "Lord of Misrule", "cuckold", "catamite". But his King spoke the loudest of them all, and while the others deeply loathed the Gascon and demanded his exile or death, the ruler of his nation loved him so dearly. He was his favorite. He was his lover. _

"Fuck…fuck, I'm so close…fuck, it's almost there…"

But he couldn't deny it. His current lover, America, Alfred F. Jones, "Alfie" on the rare occasions, him and that man from his past were so similar. Which is why, instead of America's name (or some garbled version of it), he closed his eyes, let himself explode within the other's hand, and did the unthinkable.

"Piers!"

"_Why are you back?"_

"_Ah, Lord Kirkland, it seems as if you are not ecstatic for my return?" the Gascon said, putting his hand to his forehead as he overdramatically feigned sadness. "Though I guess you are not the only one, so I suppose I shouldn't expect much."_

"_Damn right. You are supposed to be in Ireland. Why have you returned?"_

"_Why else would I be back? The King sent for me himself. You cannot say that you yourself haven't missed me, can you? How cold." _

To which all movement ceased, even though the two had both reached that point of boiling over, the same instant he shouted out the wrong name Britain was able to feel the other release inside of him. He could also feel the hole the other was staring into him, a blank look on his face as his mind slowly caught up to speed with what had just happened.

"…Britain?"

That silence. Oh, how he hated that silence, it was awkward and miserable and made him want to die. Why did he have to say his name, why?

"_Back again, I see," the Brit laughed at the Gascon, though to say it was of true amusement would have been a lie. It was rather half-hearted. "This has to be, what, the fourth time you've returned? Perhaps the fifth?"_

_The Gascon had definitely lost weight, looking rather exhausted and gloomy. He let out a small chuckle as well. "Only the third, Lord Kirkland. You give me too much credit; I don't know if I could pull off as much as you ask of me."_

"_I see time has treated you well," Arthur murmured sarcastically, but the comment was caught by the other. Nevertheless, he just smiled, staring down at his hands, taking in shallow breaths as he sat in silence. _

"Arthur?"

And he was using his real name. Oh fuck, this was bad.

"Arthur? Hey, c'mon, listen! I'm trying to talk to you!"

The American hit his shoulder lightly, still towering over him like the giant he was, flaccid member still encased in that tight heat. But all Arthur could do was embarrassingly look to the side, not making a single sound as he wished the other would just leave him alone.

"_Perhaps now," he whispered, the other catching the soft tone in his voice, much different from the defiant and haughty one he usually donned, "I can be free."_

"_You speak nonsense," Arthur scoffed. "I'm sure he will come back successful. He promised you a whole army ready to fight when he left you here at Scarborough."_

"_He won't come. Everyone has abandoned me; it surprises me every time I look up and see that you are still there. I would have thought you'd be the first to leave."_

"_Don't be ridiculous."_

"Fine then, don't talk to me," America spat out, finally pulling out of the other and turning the opposite way, their backs to each other as if a wall were physically dividing the two. He rustled a bit in bed to find a position he was comfortable in before grunting "good night" to his lover, not concerned at all of the physical mess they had made together and the emotional mess Britain had just created and was only making worse as each silent second passed by. "Crying out someone else's name in bed," America said under his breath, "least you could do is explain."

_Britain was able to emerge from the crowd as he broke into a run, but he was unable to escape the sound of the sharp blade slicing through the other's skin and stopping at the block, the sound of a heavy object clunking to the ground as the now separate head rolled to the floor. In his mind, his feet could not take him far enough from that wicked place; from Blacklow Hill, where it seemed as if the whole country had gathered to watch him die._

_He was helpless. Pembroke's chivalrous act and his honor had been breached, and even with this charge against Warwick, demanding justice for the crime that had gone against his word, Pembroke himself was also just as helpless. _

_What he was able to do was wait until he had run into an alley, tucked between stone walls, in a place where no one could see him. _

_And then, in the midst of no one but the constant chatter of the voices moving about outside, he collapsed and wept. His tears fell upon deaf ears as he sank to his knees, ruining some of his best vestments, and cried like a small child._

"_Piers…dearest Piers…damnit, why?"_

Britain rolled to face the American's back, reaching out to him as tears slid down his cheeks. He hadn't meant to utter someone else's name in bed. He hadn't meant to damage the other's pride as he dwelled upon a figure of the past.

They were just so alike, not so much in appearance as attitude and how they carried themselves. They both were haughty, always forgetting where they had come from and looming over those in power and rubbing it in their faces. They were both handsome, the kind that stopped you in your tracks. And they were both so kind, so loving to those they actually did cared for.

They had both wanted to be free of him. They had both wanted that independence.

Yet they had both come back to him so many times.

"I'm sorry," Britain managed to force out between his cries and hiccups, hugging the other from behind. He could feel the American tense as he uncontrollably cried into his back, tears soaking the other's skin as he pressed himself into the taller blonde a bit more. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm…"

The American simply turned around, the sheets shifting beneath as he returned the hug, drawing Arthur into his chest and holding him close. He laid a kiss to the top of his head, a hand gently ruffling his hair as he hushed the Brit soothingly, the other hand rubbing his back in an attempt to get him to calm down.

"We can talk about it in the morning. Let's just get some sleep, okay?"

To which the Brit nodded, his sobs finally petering out as he cuddled closer into the taller man, taking a deep breath as he allowed himself to settle down.

"I love you, Arthur."

That was what he had needed to hear the most. He swallowed hard, feeling an enormous weight being lifted from him, voice quiet as he whispered back, "I love you too, Alfred."

In the morning. Yes, they would definitely talk in the morning. He could tell him about the King's favorite turned lover and how everyone, especially him, despised his very being. He could explain how even though this intense hatred was there he still found room to love and adore him. He could defend that even though this had happened it was years ago, and for some strange reason tonight happened to be the night that his past came back to haunt him. He would assure America that he was the one he loved now, had loved for years, and maybe they would even joke about how the American and the Gascon were so much alike.

Whatever happened, it would all the cards would be laid out tomorrow. The story of Piers Gaveston, a secret the Brit had kept locked up within him for centuries now, would finally be told.

He wasn't sure if he was absolutely terrified or really excited.

**I may make this into a two-shot? I really don't know. I thought about where it'd go from here, so maybe? **

**Well, I guess since you made it this far, I can give you a bit of historical background.**

**Piers Gaveston was a knight and the favorite of King Edward II. They met when the two were teens, and because Edward I thought Piers would be a good influence on his son, he appointed Gaveston as a member of the court for his son. Though it didn't work out as planned. He was banished. But then Edward I died and he was brought back. But he managed to piss off a ton of important people and was banished again. Though because Edward II missed him so much, he was brought back again. **

**Life pretty much went this way and he was banished and brought back so many times. Anyway, he was beheaded. There were a ton of rumors that Edward II and Gaveston loved each other, and that Edward II was the king but it was Gaveston that really ruled.**

**Anyway, that's basically it in a nutshell. I kind of went the path of Brandy Purdy in that Gaveston was very sick of his life and everyone hating him and that he wanted to be free from Edward's love, but he could never really escape him. I've kind of adopted a new theory to the whole USUK thing I named The Gaveston Theory…or something or other. Basically how their relationship is kind of like a historical representation of what happened in the 14th century between the king and his favorite. Though there are still some things I'd need to work out…hmm…**

**Anyway, enough of that. Comment if you want me to write more; I don't know if I will, but if it goes over well it'll get changed from a maybe to a definite maybe. Read and review, over and out! -Nibzo**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello hello! Well, after a bit of contemplating I did decide to continue this one-shot. However, I've actually come up with a few ideas I would like to work with, so this is actually going to be a lot longer than a two-shot as well. Hopefully then if you're still following (or new to following, if so, hello there!) you'll be amused with what I've come up with.**

**So, without further delay, here is chapter 2.**

**Do not own anything in this that common sense dictates I shouldn't own. That includes the play titles, Hetalia, or any actual historical figures such as the real Piers Gaveston. If I forgot to mention anything, if common sense says a 21-year-old girl writing fanfiction on the internet doesn't own it, the chance of that being true is highly likely.**

The sun shone brightly through the curtains, its bright rays slowly making their way to the bed where one sleeping figure still lay. Tangled in the sheets, Britain took in shallow breaths as he continued on in his blissful sleep, even after what had happened last night. Of course, he had no idea what was in store for him in the next few minutes, so for now he slept on, a look of contentedness set into his face.

Not true for his partner, Alfred F. Jones, the United States of America. The other man's name rang in his ears still, leaving him with unpleasant thoughts and in a very bad-tempered mood. He huffed as he continued to flip the breakfast he was making for the two of them. What had made Britain say such a thing?

"_Well,"_ he thought to himself, again flipping the pancakes, _"it's not as if I haven't ever had any slip-ups in bed."_

But saying someone else's name?

No. Never never never. Not in a million years.

He had always remembered loving Britain. If anything, it was while he was off having relations with someone else that he had let the island nation's name slip from parted lips. Of course, he remembered how his bed partner would feel at that moment; insecure, unconfident, jealous. Usually he would have been thrown out on the spot, whether he had had enough time to cover himself up or not.

Strange then, how he was taking this with Britain. Because America definitely did feel all three of those things, especially jealousy. He was beyond simply jealousy, even; it was more of an intense jealous rage that fueled him, coursed through his veins. But he was being surprisingly…understanding.

Of course, that's love for you. And he knew the island nation loved him back, and would never intentionally put him through this, right? Of course he was right. He was the United States of America; who wouldn't love him?

This train of thought always made him think of all of the flaws that he had though. His insatiable eating habits, his messy and unkempt environment, his big mouth. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. This Piers guy was probably a thousand times better than him.

A defeated sigh escaped America's lips before the smell of burning breakfast quickly broke him from his thoughts.

…..

"Christ, I can't do anything right," America mumbled outside the door. After burning the breakfast in bed he had planned to make this conversation with Britain easier, he hadn't had time to make anything else and, in a frenzy, had run to the cupboard to pull out anything edible that he could still serve to the Brit. This was the result; America now stood in front of the door with a tray holding two bowls of Frosted Flakes and one cup of milk (he had run out of milk, fuck, why was NOW the time to run out of milk?) and a couple of overripe bananas. Perhaps the cup of tea he had made would help to smooth over this disaster of a breakfast; he tried his hardest to make it exactly the way the Brit liked it, because to hell with everything else, if Britain had a good cup of tea he knew things would work out alright in the end.

Knocking to let the sleeping blond know he was coming in, he waited momentarily for the sound of rustling sheets to let him know the other was awake. Slowly opening the door, he was actually relieved to see his lover, and a few nervous strides across the carpet later he gently put the tray down and kissed the top of his messy blond hair.

"G'morning," he said, taking a seat next to the Brit. "Sleep well?"

Britain only nodded before looking down at the tray and scowling. "Frosted Flakes?"

"Yeah…I kind of ruined breakfast," he reached behind his head to give it an awkward scratch. "My bad."

Again, Britain only nodded, taking his teacup and inhaling deeply before taking a small sip. A small smile got out at that. "At least this tea is good."

"Yeah…yeah, at least the tea is good."

America picked up one of the bowls of Frosted Flakes and poured half of the cup of milk onto the cereal, feeling his heart beat wildly in his chest at the silence that permeated the air. How was he going to bring this all up? _"Hey, Britain, last night was crazy,"_ no, not like that, too casual, _"Who the hell is Piers?"_ shit, no, that was too rough, too demanding, too possessive, _"Why would you even do that to me?"_

"So…" he finally began in-between bites of his Frosted Flakes.

"Git, don't talk with your mouth full," the other interrupted before he could utter another word. America swallowed; it felt dry and scratchy, like he hadn't used enough milk; again, why did he have to run out of milk right now?

"So," he began again, "about last night…"

At this, Britain froze. He had actually tried to forget about last night, how he had ended up being a crying mess after calling out the wrong name in bed. Clearing his throat and then lifting his teacup to his lips again, "I can't imagine what you mean by 'last night'."

"Oh come on, Iggy…"

"Don't you dare call me that," Britain had responded, more harshly than he had intended. He could imagine the glare that was on his face as well; looking at the American it was enough to make the taller blond grimace in fear. "I just…" a pause, "I just would rather not talk about it."

"Arthur…" America began, Christ, they were using human names again. "Arthur, I don't understand what is going on."

"There is nothing to understand because it is nothing. Now belt up and let's just talk about something else."

Of course, they didn't talk; America just sat there looking like a kicked puppy, and Britain couldn't help but feel the slightest bit guilty. The longer the silence sat there, though, the more the Brit noticed that America's hurt expression was slowly changing; with each clack of silverware against glass the American looked angrier, more frustrated. And in his own mind, America couldn't keep silent for long. "No," he finally said, or more yelled. "Who is he?"

"Pardon?"

"Who the hell is he? Who is Piers?"

"I said we should drop it."

"Who the hell is Piers?" America asked again.

"Alfred…"

"Just shut up and tell me who he is already!" he was now shouting angrily at the other, and he slammed his hands to the side of the bed in frustration, nearly tipping over the tray of breakfast. "I can't take this anymore, Arthur! I can't just sit back and pretend it never happened!"

"Alfred, it's really not a big deal…" Britain responded, calmly as he could, but a bit of panic evident in his tone as the American got louder.

"Yes it is! You said another guy's name in bed!" America growled in frustration, not really monitoring what he was saying at this point, "Can't you see what this is doing to me?"

America totally froze when that slipped; he hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to blow things out of proportion like this. He had expected to talk about things calmly over breakfast in bed. Of course though; that went wrong, and he should have taken that as a sign that things would only get worse. "So…" he now muttered it, his voice low in comparison to his earlier shouting, "Who is Piers?"

By now, Britain felt compelled to respond with the honest truth. After listening to his lover's frantic shouting he felt extremely guilty for what he had done, almost as much as he had last night when he had actually said it. Of course, Piers was a secret he had kept with him for centuries. Was he even ready to talk about something like that?

Yes…yes, he was. Even if he wasn't, it was something he needed to do. For America's sake.

"Piers is…rather, Piers was this knight I was in a relationship with…" he began.

"I knew it!" America blurted out, now feeling that jealous rage from earlier return. He abruptly got up, "You tell me where he is right now and I swear…"

"Alfred, calm down! "

"Calm down? I'll kill him!"

Of course, at the slightest mention of his lover wanting to kill the man, Britain felt extra defensive. "Well they've already beat you to it!"

"I will find him and wring his—wait, _they_?"

"Yes, they. As in my people have taken care of it for you, so you no longer need to worry about it."

America felt a bit puzzled at this; why was Britain fretting so much and putting up such a fuss? And this guy was already dead; why would feelings still be around, still resurface…

He then remembered a significant detail that he might want to ask the Brit now.

"How long has he been dead for?"

Silence, followed by a murmur; a low, quiet whisper from his lover, to which America only asked the question again.

"…700 years."

America felt absolutely confused right now. "Haha…that's a good one, dude. But seriously, how long has he been dead for?"

"Why would I lie about something like this? He had been dead for just about 700 years now. July 17, 1312…" or maybe it was June; it had been so long now even he couldn't remember.

"And you're still not over it?"

"_Still_ not over it?" Britain bit back. Oh, if he had been annoyed when America had threatened to kill him, now he was really infuriating the other. "_Still_?"

Sensing the change in his lover's tone, America suddenly went defensive. The last thing he needed was the island nation to start yelling at him for something that wasn't even his fault. "Woah, Iggy, just calm down…"

"Still?" Britain angrily laughed at that one, "Oh, that's a good one, America! As if you knew anything about my country; as if you knew anything about _ME_ and how I bloody well feel about him! Like hell you would know that they literally dragged him to his death, that they cursed and spit at him like he was nothing. Because, of course, you could describe to me exactly how I felt when his head hit the dirt and some of them had the nerve to cheer. You ignorant, self-absorbed tosser," he threw as much venom as he could into that last bit before concluding, "as if I could _still_ not be over it."

America was left speechless at that. His jaw hung open in disbelief, and he stuttered, grasping and picking his brain for a reply. Britain threw his deadliest glare at the taller blond. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, this conversation…" he prompted, hoping the American would get the hint that it was really bothering him. Taking another sip of his tea, he reveled in the silence that hung between them now.

Of course, America was rather thick-headed, and a simple prompt, even following an insult like that, wasn't enough to stop him. Still, he could sense when he needed to tread a bit more carefully. "But…" he began, and Britain was at the ready to shut him up, tea cup at his lips, but America continued, "If he's been dead for 700 years, why now?"

Taking another small sip, the Brit sighed. He really had hoped that his affront would stop the American from asking any more questions, but he assumed this one was harmless enough. Besides, he did still owe it to his lover to explain some things to him…kind of. Setting his tea cup on the small plate on his lap, he took in a deep breath. "I suppose…" he paused for a moment, yes, that was how he wanted to word it, "I suppose you remind of him in a way."

"I do? Really?"

"Don't sound so surprised. You two are quite alike, really. I mean, you don't look similar, but your personalities…it can be eerie how the two are almost parallel to each other."

"Explain."

"Well," Britain began, "you both have an extremely big mouth. With you it seems that you never really know when to belt up, though; Piers more or less just enjoyed pissing people off. Either way, you still seem to end up making people angry…"

"Okay, okay, I get it. That's just one thing though."

"Well, no, there are others. You're both show-offs, you both seem to have a rather terrible superiority-complex in which you show no respect to those above you despite your lowly background, and the way you're alike in the bedroom is…"

"No, no, no, I do _NOT_ want to go there!"

Britain chuckled. This was actually not that bad anymore. He was opening up and being honest about it, and the yelling at this point was nonexistent and they were just behaving the way they normally would as a couple; America being all indignant and pouty when the Britain was lightheartedly poking fun at him. Putting his hand to the other's cheek, he smiled.

"And…you always seem to love me, no matter what. It's what Piers…" Britain saw the other grimace at the other's name, "it's what he did for me and for the king. He was always loyal to me, always came back no matter how many times he tried to turn away."

"Ig—Arthur…"

"You always seem to love me unconditionally, my dear," he gently rubbed the other's cheek. "And…I apologize for what happened last night. I was just…" he paused again, biting his tongue to search for the right words, "I suppose that I had never really come to terms with it all and found myself caught up in the heat of the moment. That was unfair for me to do to you, and I'm sorry." He truly meant that last bit too; it took a lot for him to apologize for anything, but the green-eyed nation could really feel his heart clench at how much he really did mean it.

"Arthur…" how exactly was he supposed to respond to that? The Brit had just nearly poured his heart out for him. "God, Arthur, you know it's always been you, right?"

"Hmmm?"

"Like, there's never been anyone else that I've ever felt this way towards, y'know? And when I heard you say him name…I thought my heart had actually stopped for a moment and I was so friggin' scared…"

"It's okay, love. I know."

America bit his lip in thought. How could he help to make this better? What could he himself actually do to help remedy the situation?

He suddenly beamed. "I've got it!"

"Got what?"

"You said you never really were able to get over him, right?"

He chuckled. "Yes, Alfred, but I'm sure now that I'm aware of it I can work on it by myself."

"Let me help you."

"Pardon?"

"Let me help you!" the American yelled excitedly. He took the other's hands in his own, squeezed them reassuringly, "This is something we can do together, right? I mean, you said yourself that I didn't know more about you in the first place…"

"Right, about that…"

"So let me learn more about you! Let me help you find closure! C'mon, Iggy, please?" He threw in his best puppy-dog begging eyes to help seal the deal.

Of course, Britain couldn't resist those. "Alright, fine," he said with a huff. "You can help."

"Yes!" the American stood up, "Don't you worry, Iggy, your hero is going to do everything he can! Hahahaha!" he laughed. With that he ran out of the room, leaving a rather astonished Brit sitting alone in bed with his now cold tea and soggy bowl of cereal.

…..

"First order of business! Operation Piers-No-More!" America said to himself, sitting down at his computer. He was rather proud of that name, Piers-No-More; it had taken him a good hour or so to decide on that. "Find out some information on this guy! And what better way to do that than…" he booted up his internet, "W-W-W-dot-Wikipedia-dot-org!" he said aloud as he typed, hitting the enter key with more force than necessary. "P-I-E-R-S!" he spelled out enthusiastically as he hit the keys, again striking the enter key too hard. He couldn't help it though; this was actually kind of exciting! He was a hero, and this is what heroes did!...sort of.

Other than the origin of the name, though, Wikipedia brought up a list of names. America frowned; he didn't have time to search through all of them, even if there were only about eight or so. He needed to get moving, so instead he went to Google, where he again typed in "Piers", but this time included what Britain had told him that could help him out in finding the right guy, that it was during the time of Edward II. "Alright then," he commented to himself, "Edward II".

This brought up a series of links, and it was from these that America now had a full name: Piers Gaveston. "Pfff," he scoffed, "sounds French to me. Wonder if France would know anything about it…" He didn't contemplate that any further though; most likely if he went to France the Brit would be livid.

"_Hold the phone,"_ he thought as he scrolled down the list. _"There are plays on this guy!"_

"Britain loves plays!" he actually spoke now. "Wonder if there are any that are performing anytime soon…"

Sure enough, there were two of them going on at about the same time. America didn't really know which one to pick; the one he was leaning towards was entitled _Piers Gaveston: A Prince's Favourite_, since that had the guy's name in the title. But he didn't want to exclude _Edward II_ by Christopher Marlowe right away, so he clicked on the link to that to give it a quick once over before really making a decision.

And in his mind, it was a good thing to do too. This Christopher Marlowe guy wrote around the same time William Shakespeare had! He had hit the jackpot with this one; Britain absolutely LOVED Shakespeare, so there was no longer any contest between the plays. Of course, he could care less for old Will, but if it would make Britain happy then he was more than willing to do it. With a few more clicks and rhythmic taps of keys on his keyboard, he paid and printed out two tickets for the show. As the printer clanged, America beamed. This had to be the best idea he'd ever had.

Unbeknownst to the American, in a couple of weeks the blond would come to regret that he had chosen this play.

**TBC**

**A few things:**

**-There is discrepancy on whether Piers died on July 17 or June 17. Records, historians, and the monument dedicated to him all say different things. I do know my stuff; I just don't know who to listen to.**

**-_Piers Gaveston: A Prince's Favourite_ and _Edward II_ are both actual plays. I've read them both, and both are fantastic. You should read them if you get the chance. Sadly, I don't know if either are performing anytime soon; I made that up for this story. **

**I think those were the only two things. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will be willing to wait for the next one. School doesn't start until late August, and hopefully I'll be motivated enough to get my lazy-ass to write this and some of the other ones I'm working on (this is where the little voice in my head says, "Guuuuuuurl, you've got an actual short story you're trying to do, several little one-shots you still haven't finished, and two other fanfics you're working on; have you gone mad?"). Haha, see you later! **


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